Repo! The Genetic OneShots
by Skye Aerrow
Summary: A series of one-shots based on Repo! The Genetic Opera.
1. Another Night in the Alley : GR x AS

**Skye Says: **My first Repo! one-shot. Yay.

* * *

Another Night in the Alley

The way she looks at him sometimes, it's all he can do not to just throw her against and wall and take her right then and there, before she's even asked him for a hit.

It's getting harder now to say no, to tell her that he really needs the money more than he needs her body. The Graverobber's stomach's been empty for what seems like months, but he doesn't have the credits to get anything to eat. Some of his other regulars pay him in cash— mostly the men – but it's never enough to get him what he needs. Carmela Largo is the only woman he sees that has the money to relieve him, but he'll never see it, because he realizes now that it's not just the _drug_ she's addicted to – it's him.

They both know what they need from each other.

Carmela Largo (or Amber Sweet, as she's taken to calling herself now) saunters over to him with her hands on her hips, giving him that wicked smirk that she knows will drive him wild. Everything she _does _drives him wild, and she knows that, but he has to hold himself back for as long as he can—otherwise, she'll think that _she's_ the one in control.

She shoves him against the hard brick and smashes her mouth against his. Her long, slim fingers trail down his chest, pull at his belt…

That's when the Graverobber realizes that he's in way over his head, and it won't be long before he'll be throwing _her_ against the wall and taking her right then and there, before she's even asked him for a hit.

* * *

**Skye Also Says: **The first of many. Thanks for reading. =D


	2. Worthy Heirs : The Largos

Worthy Heirs

It is the climax of this year's Genetic Opera. Blind Mag has ripped out her own eyes and fallen to her death by impalement. Shilo Wallace has revealed her father, Nathan Wallace, to be Rotti Largo's best Repo Man. Shilo has discovered that her blood disease is the direct result of being poisoned by her father. Now, the world waits with bated breath to see whether or not she will take Rotti up on the offer to make her father pay for what he has done to her.

The gun shakes in her hands.

Watching from just offstage, the Largo siblings can tell that their father is weakening. They watch as his body is wracked by a coughing fit and nod to each other as they notice the blood on the handkerchief he uses to wipe his mouth.

"It's almost time," Pavi says impatiently.

"Quiet!" Amber and Luigi hiss in unison. Their mission is far too important to be rushed. For now, they must be content with waiting for fate to intervene, waiting for their chance to change the course of history.

Rotti Largo's will lies somewhere backstage. God knows where, but the Largo siblings have no idea. Shilo probably knows – it has _her _name all over it, after all. The trio of would-be heirs to GeneCo and to Rotti's estate intend to go looking for it just as soon as the opportunity to sneak backstage presents itself.

Shilo will not kill her father. She cannot pull the trigger, in spite of what Nathan has done to her. Rotti must know this, too, because he lunges forward and snatches the gun from her hands. In the same instant, Pavi breaks from his siblings and sprints backstage, tripping the power as he does so.

The theatre is plunged into darkness.

A few people scream as the pistol is discharged. The muzzle flash illuminates Rotti's face, the bullet lodges itself in Nathan's flesh, and then the lights come back up, and Rotti is on the ground.

Luigi looks at Amber. "Now!"

They hurry backstage to meet Pavi, who is anxiously marking up what they assume to be their father's last will and testament. Luigi shoves his brother aside to survey the damage. "'My beloved son, Paviche Largo, will bear all financial and moral burdens of the ownership of GeneCo.'" Luigi growls, "Like hell you will." He rips the pen out of Pavi's hands and violently scrawls his own name into the sentence.

They do not have much time left. Amber pats her face gingerly, as though afraid it might come off again. "Hurry up! Dad still has to sign it!"

Pavi and Luigi struggle for a few brief moments. Neither of them wants to give up ownership of GeneCo, but neither of them wants to be murdered, either. Their gazes lock, and an unspoken compromise is reached.

Luigi lowers the pen to the paper, revising the sentence. Pavi nods and adds two or three more clauses, to which Luigi does not object.

Amber peeks out from the wings of the stage. Her father is struggling to breathe. She turns to her brothers. "Come on, come on, he's almost dead!"

Luigi snatches up the will and jerks Pavi over to where Amber is standing. Nathan is finally dead. Shilo is walking out of the theatre, and several hundreds of people are following after her.

They think the show is over, but the best is yet to come.

Rotti is pale and sickly. Blood trickles in a thin thread from the corner of his lips, and his eyes are glazed. He barely recognizes his children when he sees them. Luigi kneels down beside him and thrusts the will into his hands.

"Wha—" The rest of his sentence is swallowed up by a coughing fit that nearly tears his throat apart.

"Sign this," Luigi barks. "Sign this and we'll put you out of your misery."

Rotti considers this. They must not have read the will, or else they would know they were not in it. Shilo Wallace would be getting everything he had – she is the daughter he would have had with Marni, the daughter he deserves, after all. She is the rightful heiress to the greatest biotech corporation in the world.

Nevertheless, he _does _have to sign the will in order for it to take effect. And Luigi is promising him a quick solution to his pain – that is what he hates the most in this moment, the pain. It is a pain so agonizing and intense that he wonders why his chest has not split open. A shot to the head would be a blessed relief.

Rotti looks at his children, disappointed, but then he remembers that his legacy will be carried on by Shilo, not his worthless ingrate spawn.

He signs the will. He signs everything away, and then some.

Luigi sneers, passing the paper to Pavi, who tucks it into the pocket of his coat.

Amber hands Luigi the pistol. He jabs it into Rotti's temple, grinning as he pulls the trigger. The gun bucks once, discharges, and Rotti jerks. His wide eyes are fixed on Luigi's face, unseeing. Luigi shoves the gun into the holster on his hip.

_The king is dead, and the little girl fled, and the castle is left for the taking…_

"Congratulations, sister," Pavi says grandly. "You are now the owner of GeneCo."

Amber stares at her brothers, aghast.

_But perhaps GeneCo can survive if it undergoes surgery… surgery._

They are worthy heirs, indeed.


	3. A Shot in the Dark : GR x AS

A Shot in the Dark

The Graverobber was the only man who knew for sure why he had agreed to bring Amber Sweet along on his nightly run. To anyone else, the very notion was crazy; actually _conceding _to such a notion, absurd. But Amber had asked, and he liked to think of himself as the kind of dealer who followed the supply-and-demand philosophy. Amber demanded; he supplied. It was just as simple as that.

Nevertheless, even _he _was beginning to doubt his decision. They were only ten minutes into the job, and Amber was already complaining. "Why do we have to go down to the nasty old graveyard?" she asked in a half-sulk. "When Daddy needs Zydrate, he orders it from a catalogue – "

"Yeah? Well, I'm not your daddy, in case you hadn't noticed."

Amber grunted noncommittally. Graverobber ignored her and turned down yet another alley. It was hard to believe that in all the years he had known Amber, she had waited until tonight to inquire about the details of his work. He had understandably hesitated at first – if Amber saw where Zydrate _really _came from, he feared she might not want to do it anymore – but after her persistent pleading (and maybe a sexual favor) he had finally relented. Besides, she was such a hardcore addict that it would probably take the arrival of the apocalypse to get her to stop using Z.

Like a desperate vagrant, Amber followed him to the graveyard. She had not been there since, well, _ever_, really. The place gave her the creeps. The youngest Largo sibling could not understand how it was that the Graverobber could come here every single night and not be at least slightly unsettled. A general scent of decay permeated the thick fog that had sunken into the low places in the ground. The mist swirled around Amber's feet and ankles, snaking up the sides of her bare legs in an almost predatory fashion. She pressed up against the Graverobber as they headed further and further into the dark.

He sighed and gave her a light chuckle. "What's wrong, sweetheart? You never got a guided tour of the Sanitarium Island cemeteries?"

"No, not that I can remember."

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Amber clung to him as tightly as she dared. She did not want him to think that he could use her fear as a method of getting her to touch him, otherwise he would try bringing her to the graveyard every single night. Though he was addicting, she had better things to do than _him,_ and she wanted to make sure he knew it, too. They had only had sex twice – the first time because she had not had enough credits to pay him, the second time simply because she had wanted to do it – and she did not want him thinking that he could just come up and try her new parts whenever he pleased. That would just be totally _inconvenient._

"Watch your step. There's a broken headstone right in front of you."

Graverobber's intimate knowledge of the graveyards made Amber feel as though she had never really experienced life outside her father's tower. Unlike the graverobber, she had never known something or someone so closely… she had never been able to move blindly forward as though completely certain of what was to come. This – most likely – was the reason that most of her romantic escapades ended in a sad state of ruin.

Amber followed the dealer everywhere he led her. It was fitting – she had always been a follower. Rotti and Luigi were leaders, and Pavi was utterly ambivalent, but Amber Sweet had _always _been a follower.

His hands were stronger and rougher than hers; bigger, too, but what did it matter? Amber's fingers were long and slim, and her smooth hands fit as comfortably in his as she wanted them to, depending on her mood, of course. She never wanted him to believe that _he _was the one in control. But it did give Amber at least a small comfort to know that he did not necessarily _want_ to be the one in control. He knew just as well as she did that things were usually easier this way.

"I don't get it, Grave, where do we get the Zydrate—?"

"Hush, Amber. You wanna be dead tonight?"

She bit back a hasty retort, fully aware that he had a valid point. Graverobbers were to be shot on sight, and despite the fact that she was Rotti Largo's daughter, she knew the task force would shoot first and check faces later.

It seemed as though an eternity passed before they managed to make their way to the mass graves at the back of the graveyard. Judging by the oh-so-satisfied smirk on Graverobber's face, this had been their intended destination all along. Amber shivered, unable to imagine why he had wanted to come _here_, of all places. There were bodies heaped in bodies in the most macabre sort of pyramids. And if she thought the smell had been bad _earlier _– the odor of death was so strong in the mass grave that Amber nearly keeled over herself.

"The fucking _hell_ are you trying to do; kill me?"

Graverobber laughed, and it was not the sardonic chuckle that she had come to expect from him. "Amber Sweet, I give you" – he gestured broadly to the thousands of bodies filling almost the entirety of the grave – "my Zydrate sources."

Amber choked on the tepid air. "You mean to tell me…?"

"'Zydrate is a highly addictive drug extracted from the brains of human corpses'," he quoted from an unknown source, leveling his dark eyes at Amber. "Don't tell me Rotti never taught you where Z comes from."

"He… he… I just always thought… the catalogue," Amber faltered weakly.

Graverobber extracted his gun. He knelt down in the dirt and tilted one of the cadavers' heads towards him. The gun probed inside the nose. "A needle into a bug," he said brightly.

Amber watched in disbelief as the glass vial began to fill with a familiar blue substance. It glowed softly in the darkness of the grave, casting an eerie glow over the jam-packed tomb. She had never seen anything quite like it – disturbing, and yet intriguing at the same time, like a terrible car accident one simply cannot look away from. She continued to stare, without any thought as to _why _she had actually decided to watch in the first place.

Once the vial was full, the Graverobber popped it into the gun and slowly rose to his feet. In one fluid motion, he was standing in front of Amber, and the Zydrate gun was pressed up against her jugular vein.

Amber instinctively let her eyelids fall closed, arching into his body with the rawest kind of need. In spite of what she had just witnessed, her body was betraying her. The lure of the drug was too powerful for her to resist.

"Amber." Her name was like wine on his lips – rich, red, intoxicating – and he knew that if she would let him, he could go on saying her name until the world came crashing down around them.

Amber felt the pressure of his hand on her waist. She wanted this. She wanted the drug; she wanted _him. _But all of her credits were at home… "I can't pay you, Grave. Not tonight."

"Yes, sweetheart, you can. You can pay me tonight."

"Graverobber, I—"

"Ssh." He lowered the gun a few millimeters, inhaling slowly as thought trying to keep himself under control. Tonight, he wanted more than credit from Amber Sweet; more than sex. He wanted a piece of her that no other dealer had ever possessed – a fleeting touch that he doubted she shared with very many.

So the Graverobber said, "Just kiss me."

It was an aimless wish, the ghost of a whim, a shot in the dark; but nevertheless, he got what he wanted. He _always _got what he wanted.


	4. Exhibition: Graverobber x Shilo

Exhibition

The whores, the tramps, and the scalpel sluts are all over the Graverobber as he waltzes into the alley with the promise of drugs on his lips. They paw at him. They claw at him. They worship him like a god, praying their unwavering devotion will score them a cleaner hit of Zydrate. He works the crowd with the air of a veteran. He's had them begging at his feet for decades now.

Shilo bites the inside of her cheek from her hiding place in the shadows. She hates seeing the glorified prostitutes grinding against her husband. She hates seeing them undress him with their eyes. She hates seeing their hands all over him. But there's nothing she can do—he has to earn a living somehow, and peddling Zydrate is his god-given talent. _You knew what you were getting into when you married him, _she tells herself. _You promised yourself you wouldn't get jealous._

Graverobber holds up the glowing vials, and the scalpel sluts are hypnotized. Their eyes are riveted to the blue liquid; their ears eagerly absorb the seller's sales pitch. Like moths drawn to flames, they move closer to him, unable to resist the drug's charm. Shilo notes with annoyance that the seller himself also has an undeniable appeal. _He's _mine, she assures herself. _No matter what, he promised himself to me. They can have his body, but they'll never get his heart._

"Come on, ladies. Who's up first tonight?" The allure of the Graverobber's deep voice only cements the sluts' desire for the Zydrate. They pause for a moment, contemplating the cost of the drug. How will they pay tonight? A woman with blue hair and narrow eyes steps out from the throng, an easy smile spread across her face. She locks eyes with her dealer. "Anything you want—I mean it, _anything_. I just want a couple hits… I wanna be numb tonight, baby."

Shilo's jaw clenches. She especially hates it when the addicts talk dirty to her husband. I'm _the only one that has the right to do that, _a voice inside her head nags. _He's mine, mine, mine—_ "He's only accepting credit tonight," she breaks in before she can help herself. "You think you're still willing to pay?"

The woman's attention shifts to Shilo. "Who in surgery's name're you?"

Shilo snarls, "His _wife._"

Graverobber is uncomfortable. "Kid, please."

Shilo halts at the use of her nickname. He's called her _kid _since the day they met. She once complained about his lack of pet names, and he'd countered her complaint easily. "I only use pet names with the scalpel sluts. None of them will ever compare to you." Since hearing his explanation, she's been absolutely thrilled to have him call her _kid. _It reminds her just how special their relationship is.

"Shilo," Graverobber says again, "it's just _work._"

"We need the money, Grave. Rent for the house is due—"

"At the end of the week, I know. Don't we always make payment?"

"Well, yes, but"—Shilo glances over at the woman sizing Graverobber up—"I want her to pay you in _credit_… for me, Grave."

"I don't got no credit," the woman drawls. "I just got myself."

"Then I'm sorry, sweetheart, but no Z for you. Come on." Shilo grabs Graverobber's hand and drags him away from the scalpel sluts. He puts up little resistance as she leads him out of the alley, up a fire escape, and through a back door to an abandoned parts warehouse. They stand facing each other in a dark corridor. "What were you thinking out there?"

Graverobber exhales. "Shilo, you're being unreasonable. My job requires—"

"You can't throw my heart around like this, Grave. You can't keep gallivanting around with all these women and not expect me to get jealous."

"I know, kid. I usually make them pay me in credit, but sometimes, they don't have it, and rather than lose business…" Graverobber shrugged. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Turn them away?"

"Yes!"

"Shilo."

"Don't touch me!" Shilo jerks away from the Graverobber, pressing her back against the wall. _How many other woman has he touched like that? How many other women has he made love to? _She chokes back bile. "God, Grave… you just don't understand."

"I'm trying to."

Shilo swallows. "How many?"

"Excuse me?"

"How many women have you—have, uh, _paid _you?"

Graverobber swears. "I don't see why it—"

"Answer the question!"

"I don't know. You think I keep track? This is ridiculous." Graverobber begins to pace. His footsteps echo down the long hallway. _Creak, step. Creak, step_. The noise is deafening in the tense silence that stretches between them.

Shilo feels like screaming. _Creak, step. Creak, step_. Her heart pounds against her ribcage, threatening to burst out of her chest. Her stomach hurts. They've had this argument once a month every month since they've been married. Three years of anger and jealousy. Three years of heartache and pain. Three years of living with a man who is by far the most amazing person she knows, but who is also—at the same time, mind you—the most infuriating person she knows. She can hardly live with him, but she refuses to consider living without him. "You are my life now," she says softly. Her voice is unsteady in the oppressive darkness. She sounds like a child again. "I love you."

Graverobber stops pacing. He takes a breath of damp oxygen and holds it. Shilo can tell he's thinking because it takes him forever to speak. He's trying to find the right words to say. He just wants to let her know that everything will be all right. She knows it. After several moments, he releases the breath and says, "I love you, too."

The tension dissolves in an instant. Shilo breaks away from the wall and drifts into Graverobber's arms. He holds her tight against his chest. She buries her head in the crook of his neck and closes her eyes. For now, everything is all right. Everything is better. Now, in this moment, they are a couple again—man and woman, husband and wife, and two halves of a beautiful marriage. _I remember why I'm willing to put up with the drug dealing, _Shilo muses as her husband holds her. _At the end of the day, he always makes it up to me._

Graverobber presses his lips to the top of Shilo's head. He smiles into her hair, a wicked grin that lights up his eyes. His voice is sly. "Hey, kid… I got a great idea."

Shilo smirks. "Bring it on."

* * *

After walking hand-in-hand back to the alley, Shilo and the Graverobber make it a point to ignore the desperate scalpel sluts. They still paw at Graverobber as he passes, but his scheme is too amusing for him to think about anything else. Shilo giggles as he whispers something in her ear. She says something to him. His eyebrows arch.

Graverobber flashes a smile at the women surrounding him and grabs Shilo by the waist. They kiss. Shilo blushes when she realizes all eyes are on them. Her husband winks at her and kisses her again, pushing her up against the wall. She tangles her hands in his hair and deepens the exchange.

"Whore," a woman whispers.

Shilo laughs. The laugh transforms into a moan as Graverobber bites her neck. His hands tug at the bottom of her shirt. Their eyes meet.

"You okay with this?" Graverobber asks.

Shilo glances around at the drug-hungry prostitutes. She can picture the looks on their faces as Graverobber takes her against this brick wall. She can taste sweet revenge. She smiles at her husband. "I think so."

Shilo has never considered herself an exhibitionist, and she's by no means looking forward to having these women see her naked, but if it means winning the game, then by all means…

As Graverobber pulls off her shirt and his mouth touches her collarbone, Shilo arches her back, sighing. She's no longer jealous of the scalpel sluts—on the contrary, she _pities _them.

When it comes right down to it, they can't feel _nothin' _at all... and _she _can feel every blessed thing.


	5. Monster: Luigi x Shilo

Monster

When he sees her like this, it's impossible for him to imagine she ever really feared him. Her soft, feminine form curls against his chest. Her lips are parted ever-so-slightly, the ghost of a sigh on her tongue. She never asks him to spare her—probably because she knows he can't—and even now, he feels a pang of regret for the deed he has yet to commit. In sleep she reaches out and closes her hand around his arm. It is a comfortable and familiar gesture

_(It hurts, it hurts, oh, God—it really fucking _hurts)

that somehow still manages to catch Luigi off-guard. To this very day, he can't lie to himself and say he craves this kind of intimacy.

She looks so peaceful.

A few rooms over, Luigi knows his brother is waiting. He doesn't understand why he agreed to help the cross-dressing son of a bitch out in the first place. He doesn't understand what's in it for him. There don't seem to be any real benefits

(_luigi, please—baby—don't do this to me)_

on his part, other than getting to play with his new knife. Really, if he wants _that_ kind of satisfaction, he can step outside and waste a gentern. But _no_—that isn't what Pavi wants, and for some ridiculous reason, Luigi feels the need to help his brother out.

Last summer, Pavi helped him waste Amber. Then, he graciously allowed Luigi to take his rightful place as the owner and heir to the GeneCo Biotechnology Corporation. Luigi supposes he really _does _owe Pavi at least one small favor.

Shilo stirs in her sleep. Her eyelids flutter. Luigi's hand goes to her hair, pulling his fingers through her long, dark locks. She gives a contented

(a scream so horrific it even breaks _luigi's_ soul)

exhalation and settles back into unconsciousness, her fingers tightening on his bicep.

and then and then and _then_--

he struggles

pavi _waits_

shilo trusts too easily

_and time just... _

Luigi screws his eyes shut and prays against his nature. He clenches the knife in one hand while stroking Shilo's hair with the other. This is some sick, sick shit. He hates himself for it. He hates himself and at the same time is eternally grateful for allowing himself the opportunity to maim an innocent tonight. Christ, he's more twisted than a crown of thorns, and much less holy, he assures himself. He knows what he is, and he knows

(_oh, fuck, it _hurts—_my goddamn _face—_you ripped my goddamn face off)_

what will happen in the end, despite his efforts to betray himself. He knows trying to reason his way out of this won't

(**just a little longer, bitch, shut the hell up and i'll make sure it's quick)**

get him anywhere at all. If anything, it'll just make everything worse.

Ten minutes left. Pavi sticks his head in and scowls at Luigi in the darkness. "Brother, the Pavi would-a like his new face in this decade."

Luigi's grip tightens. The blade of the knife slices into his palm. Shilo sleeps like a baby, like an angel, like a corpse—unaware that anything could possibly go wrong. Three years with a graverobber should've taught her

(_am I going to _die,_ luigi, are you going to kill me while I'm lying in your bed)_

(**pavi, shut the fuck up, she's gonna lose too much blood if I cut any deeper)**

to be more careful, especially around monsters like Luigi Largo.

blood

so much, so red

blood, _blood_, blood

_amber sweet is dying, ya'll, the princess is dead_

murder in the largo house

damn them all to _hell_

Luigi violently shoves Shilo away from him. She awakes with a start, squinting in the dark room. "What's going on, Luigi? What—" He clamps a hand over her mouth. Even from across the room, he senses Pavi's approval. He can almost _feel _that smug, narcissistic grin

(_you said I'd be fine as long as no one found out, and I didn't fucking tell on us)_

(**pavi, take the fucking knife—finish this if you want the goddamn face—so much blood**)

flashing at him from beside the door.

In that instant, he can't do it. He is far too weak for this. He can't stop himself from hurting her. He can't promise her she'll be all right.

your father died because he pissed my father off

it isn't fair... he didn't mean—

my dad's dead, too, it's all going to be okay

_hold me, please, just hold me..._

"The face," Pavi hisses.

The first cut is the deepest. By the end of the night, Luigi knows he is dead and even though the blood on the sheets isn't his—it's the blood of an innocent lamb—it might as well be pumping through his heart because she was everything to him and now his brother has her face and he's a monster in his soul but in his head he knows he likes it and this is why he'll end up slitting his wrists in the bathtub one day just to taste the other side of his betrayal.


	6. Things You See in a Graveyard: NW, GR

"Things You See in a Graveyard"

Midnight in the graveyard. The air is still and laced with notes of autumn and decay. Headstones cast long shadows on the ground, illuminated by sparse candlelight. A guard leans against the wall, waiting to be relieved of his duties for the night. He hasn't seen a graverobber in weeks. He wonders if his training could be put to better use.

The dead rest in a peace impossible in life – a peace untouched by thoughts of Repo Men and GeneCo. Their worries have all passed. Some of them will fall prey to the probe of the graverobber's needle, but none of them anticipate the event. They have nothing to anticipate now – no debts to pay off, no surgeries to schedule, and no Zydrate addictions to battle.

They are lucky.

Next, comes a voice from the shadows: "You can go home now. I'm taking this shift."

The guard is relieved in every sense of the word. He nods at the darkness and disappears into the night, drifting far from the land of the dead.

The Graverobber himself emerges in place of another guard, dressed in his trademark fur coat and suspenders. He reeks of the gutter, and rightfully so, as that's where he spends most of his time. His smug smirk and air of possession make it clear that he has intimate knowledge of this graveyard. It serves as his office, in a way. Most of his transactions occur in the alley, but this place is his warehouse. The corpses are his sole suppliers and proprietors – and GeneCo has no say or share in his twisted corporation.

Tonight is not the first night he's committed this fraud. He often masquerades as a graveyard guard to obtain the Zydrate he needs. It's far easier than sneaking in while guards are sleeping – some of them wake too quickly for his tastes. So, he waits until the latest guard is ready to be relieved, puts on a voice, and insinuates himself into the guard's position. Works like a charm, and almost every time.

Not even the Repo Men catch on. He never has to worry about being caught, killed, or injured. It's a beautiful strategy, and he's a genius for inventing the plan.

On this particular evening, the Graverobber is low on Z, and he desperately needs to restock. His favorite customers have been threatening to go elsewhere lately, and he can't afford to lose a single one. He's put off going to the graveyard for a little over a week now. After last month's incident with Regent, he's been much more cautious in order to avoid her fate. Death by firing squad isn't exactly on his wish list.

He grabs the first unprotected body he can find and jams his needle up the nose. He pulls the plunger, but nothing fills the vial. Someone else was here.

Swearing, the Graverobber rises – and stiffens at the dry _crunch _of leaves somewhere nearby. A chill slithers down his back. Something sinister hangs in the air along with the reek of dead bodies.

He turns to face his foe, and finds his worst fear fully realized. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his face. He combats the terror with his trademark smirk, addressing the stranger in his smooth, low voice: "_Out from the night, from the mist, steps a figure. No one really knows his name for sure. He stands at six-foot-six, head and shoulders. Pray he never comes knocking at your door."_

Nathan Wallace removes his helmet. His scalpel glistens in the moonlight, but he doesn't use it on the Graverobber. His voice is scratchy. "You know the rules, graverobber. I can only allow you one visit per month."

"Dr. Wallace. It's been a while." He bows grandly, still smirking. "To what do I owe the honor of your esteemed presence?"

"You know what I need, graverobber."

"I beg your pardon."

"Just... give it to me. One hit, and I'll be on my way."

The Graverobber wipes his brow and studies Nathan carefully. "You're bloody, Dr. Wallace. Working the graveyard shift this evening?"

"_Please."_

"So am I." He shifts his weight to lean on a tall headstone and cocks his head at Nathan. Tonight is by no means their first meeting. Rotti's favorite Repo Man's been coming to the Graverobber for almost three years now, and shows no sign of stopping. A wry smile curves the dealer's lips: _Repo Man is addicted to his knife... and addicted to his knife he needs a little help with the agony._

Nathan sighs. His fingers twitch, imprisoned in his gloves. "I'll even pay you this time. How's that?" Usually, his only payment is the promise to protect Grave and a few of his friends. Not a bad deal, but still not quite as nice as money.

_My organs are _mine, _Nathan Wallace. Nary a transplant scar to be found on this ragged body here, dear Repo Man._

"How much you got?" Graverobber asks.

"Fifteen – "

"Oh, don't insult me after all I've – "

"_Thousand._"

His eyebrows ascend. "Do you have it all in credit?"

Nathan nods.

"With you right now?"

Again, the nod.

The dealer grins and holds out his hand. _First hit's free – a taste of the Z. Next time, pay up if you want to be free. Why should I share if there's nothing for me? Credit or sex, please, or just let me be. _"Pleasure doing business with you, doc."

"Likewise." Nathan withdraws the money from his pocket and drops it into Graverobber's open palm. He unfastens the collar of his uniform to allow his dealer access to his neck – the Zydrate's journey is swifter through the carotid.

Graverobber prepares the needle and pops the vial into the gun. "You lucked out, Wallace. It's the last one I have left."

Nathan grunts. A thin sheen of sweat covers his face.

_Careful, Dr. Wallace – your anxiety is showing._

"Bend down."

The Repo Man stoops and closes his eyes. He winces as the needle slides beneath his skin, but the discomfort is immediately replaced by relief. This relief is followed by the shock of pleasure and numbness that leaves Nathan senseless. He stumbles and sags against an adjacent statue, muttering quietly to himself.

In the stillness of the night, the Graverobber hears the murmurings: "_I remember... I'll do as I'm told... She looks just like you, I remember, I remember..."_

He discards the needle and tucks the empty vial back into his coat. The gun goes in with it. There's no Zydrate anywhere on his person now. He'll have to try to restock sometime before the end of tomorrow night or run the risk of losing valuable customers to that scummy dealer on the east side of town.

Nathan comes down from his high about fifteen minutes after the injection. Graverobber guards his defenseless body up until he awakes. It never ceases to amaze him that such a powerful being can be rendered powerless by a single shot. When Nathan wakes, he is still groggy, but asks, "What else do you want from me?"

"I need access to a couple of bodies, guaranteed. You let me have your next five Repo victims, and I'll give you a fresh dose for free."

He regards Graverobber through half-lidded eyes. "_I'll do as I'm told – "_

"_And old Rotti won't know – "_

"_About these dark and fateful nights – "_

"_Relieving anguish, pain, and strife – "_

"_From living my sad Repo Life."_

"_That's the bitch of Repo Life."_

They stand staring at each other for a few minutes. Neither man says a word – but what is there to be said, really? At last, once everything is settled, they shake hands, and Dr. Wallace disappears into the darkness. The Graverobber whistles as he, too, drifts away and marvels at the night's events. _The things you see in a graveyard..._


	7. At the Wake: Graverobber x Shilo

"At the Wake"

The Largos somehow allowed Shilo to put her father in a marked grave. They paid for a casket and a funeral and everything, but when Shilo asked about the courtesy, Amber refused to give an explanation. Nathan Wallace was laid to rest with his late wife, far from the damned sinkhole many thought he wholeheartedly deserved.

After the service was over, Shilo went home. She opened the door and stood in the house, suddenly so big and empty and hostile – a far cry from the familiar home she'd always known. The dust motes floating in the air were a sad commentary on her passionless existence. The painting over the fireplace mocked her, saying, _I've got him now. You're all alone. No one is going to look after you._

Upstairs, the toilet beckoned. Shilo crouched in front of it and threw up half her body weight. She trembled as she stood and went to the sink to splash water on her face. When she looked in the mirror, a ghost with bloodshot eyes red-rimmed from crying looked back at her. "Oh, God."

"Believe me, kid, I've seen much worse."

Shilo whirled around and swore. It took her a moment to register the man's face, but once she did, she let herself relax. "Graverobber. What are you doing here?"

"I came to offer my condolences," he said.

She swallowed. Her throat was still raw. "You came to say you're sorry to hear my father died?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what condolences are?"

Shilo studied him from head to toe. The last time she saw him, she'd had little time to look at him, but now she had all the time in the world. She remembered the face and the smell, but the rest was entirely new to her. If he'd worn a mask, she wouldn't know him. He was more filled-out than she remembered him, more real, if she were being honest with herself. And dangerous. There was something about him warning her against trusting him even now.

"Don't you have a tomb to rob?"

"It's nice to see you, too." Graverobber helped himself to a seat on her bed. He pushed the plastic curtain aside and frowned as though it had offended him. His lips were dark, Shilo noticed.

"How the hell did you find me, anyway?"

"You've been all over the news for a while now. I heard the funeral was today, and there were some reporters outside your house this morning, so I put two and two together and followed you just to make sure."

"Okay, well, how did you get in here?"

"You left the gate open."

Damn. She'd been too dazed to remember to lock it. Shilo crossed her arms and stared at him. "Did you really come here just to express your sympathy?"

Graverobber scratched the back of his neck and wiped his hand on the curtain. Mud spread over the plastic. He either didn't notice or he didn't care. "Yes and no."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means yes, I did come here to offer my condolences and no, that is not the only motive for my visit." Graverobber held up a finger in a "wait" gesture and began to rifle through the pockets of his coat. Vials clacked together, reminding Shilo of his profession as a street Zydrate dealer. She wondered if he still made good money.

"Do you make good money?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Selling drugs. Does it pay well?"

"Oh, yeah. I earn a decent living," Graverobber said. "Of course, I accept a lot of sex in place of credit, so I could be doing much better to be honest."

"And how's the sex?"

"Not as awkward as you'd expect, sweaty, dirty, and sometimes messy. Some customers are better than others, but as long as they're giving, I don't much care how good I'm getting." He winked and went back to sifting through the lining of his jacket. Shilo watched him as he worked. His fingers were quick; his movements, deft. He was good with his hands.

"I've never had sex," she said.

He looked up. "Ever?"

"N-no. I'm a virgin."

"Well. How about that." He returned to the task at hand – the pocket search. "I guess I could've figured it out. You know, it makes sense. You've been cooped up in this house your whole life. How were you supposed to get a guy to bang you?"

She blinked.

Graverobber withdrew a glass jar from his pockets and offered it to Shilo with a grin. Inside, she could see a glowing insect. It was one she'd never seen before.

"It was a bitch to find, and I wasn't sure if you'd found one already, but I saw it and went, eh, what the hell. You like it?"

Shilo turned the jar over in her hands and stared wide-eyed at the creature inside it. The light from beneath its exoskeleton was a pale green and reminded her of something she'd seen in a dream long, long ago. She looked at Graverobber and smiled. "I love it! I can't believe you found this!" She handed him the jar and scurried over to her book, hastily flipping through pages until she found what she was looking for. "_Solaris princepus!_ Thanks, you're the best!"

Graverobber tensed instinctively when she hugged him, but then managed to override his reflex and return her enthusiastic embrace. When was the last time someone had hugged him? He paused. Had anyone ever hugged him?

Shilo hadn't let go. This situation was dangerous.

"Kid, I can't breathe."

"What?"

"Let go, okay?"

"Sorry," she said, but she wasn't sorry at all. Shilo pulled away so she was looking up at him, her slim fingers resting on the lapels of his coat. He was warm and soft and somehow more familiar to her than the home she'd been raised in – more comforting, and safer, even.

"You didn't mean that," he said.

"No, I didn't." She blinked. "Did you want me to mean that?"

"No."

Shilo's eyes were glazed. Her eyelashes fluttered, still wet with tears. Her hands slid over his chest. She wanted him. She wanted him to take her pain and grief and sadness away, to help her forget her life was a frigid hell. She needed him to pull her out of her father's grave.

"Sleep with me," she said, pressing her hips against his and biting her lip.

He winced. "I don't think that's a good idea, kid."

Her eyes closed. She was trembling, and Graverobber didn't know what to do about it. He put his arms around her and held her, uncertain. When she buried her face in his chest, he shifted and cleared his throat.

"This is your father's _wake_. It's not a good time – _shhhhhit._"

The last word emerged as a hiss. She was squeezing his crotch.

"Less talk," she said. "More action."

He told himself he shouldn't. He swore to himself he wouldn't. He didn't think he could, either – yet, somehow, his body responded to her every virgin ministration. He opened her mouth with his own. He slipped his tongue between her teeth. She fumbled with his belt buckle and he – fool that he was – fumbled with the buttons on her little black dress.

Shilo jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. Graverobber held her tightly as they made out. He carried her over to the bed and they crashed against the plastic curtain. She groped blindly for the zipper. He pulled her inside, and they reached for each other again.

"Your dad's funeral was today," Graverobber said again. "Shouldn't you still be grieving?"

"I've spent seventeen years of my life in mourning. Shut up and screw me before I change my mind."

###

After the sex, Graverobber went into the kitchen to get something to eat. Shilo followed him downstairs, basking in post-coital bliss. The house itself no longer haunted her – she knew there was more to the world than the empty rooms and hallways. She was warm and confident and _satisfied, _thanks to the carnality she'd been denied in her sheltered upbringing. The painting over the fireplace judged her with a knowing smirk – _You're nothing but a filthy little whore. You'll never hear from him again, you know._

Shilo turned to the painting, hands on her hips, and stuck her tongue out at her mother. Distantly, she could hear Graverobber whistling as he rummaged through the pantry. He emerged minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses, one of which he handed to her.

They drank a toast to Nathan Wallace. Only when Graverobber apologized for violating Shilo at her father's wake did she realize she was falling for him – and maybe, just maybe, he was falling for her, too.


End file.
